


Let the Poets Pipe of Love

by Aja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brothels, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Polyjuice Potion, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-01
Updated: 2005-06-01
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: Harry is a virgin, Draco is a hooker, but when they get together they have nothing butfunsexfights—well, something like that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: contains hooker!Draco, first-time sex, mildly dubious consent, brief bondage, polyjuice, and mild angst.
> 
> Written for Rosesanguina for the reversathon fic challenge. The request was: “I'd love to see a post-Hogwarts H/D where Harry wants to lose his long-held pesky virginity, and wants it to be with a pro. He doesn't realise feelings could get involved, but they do. All the kink you like, and I do love a bit of angsty plot, as long as it's a happy ending for our boys!” 
> 
> I was never very good with kinks, so I hope you’ll accept a good deal of mind-fucking instead. I owe the biggest thanks to Reena for sultry recreation, beta comments and encouragement—and to Shaggirl, Queen of Rentboys, who encouraged, pepped, cheered, made suggestions, and did a fabulous beta job. She rocks me harder than Harry rocks Draco on a Friday night. 
> 
> The title comes from the ever-apropos Cole Porter song, "Love For Sale." :) 
> 
> This was a fun challenge. Many thanks to fluffyllama for putting it all together.

From the outside, the Red Candle looked exactly like what it was—a renovated Edwardian brothel disguised as a ridiculously dainty bath and body potions shop. Although the side entrance was continuously trafficked day and night, it was so unobtrusive that the place had been allowed to stand among the more respected establishments in the Wizard District for nearly 90 years. More recently in its history it had quietly expanded its services to provide for patrons of all appetites and genders, as reflected in the comment a few years before of the wife of the French Wizarding Ambassador; who, when asked by a nosy Daily Prophet reporter if she knew of her husband’s activities at the Red Candle, replied calmly, “Of course I do—we go there together.”  
  
Wearing his hood over his head out of habit, despite the fact that he wore a glamour and would never have been recognized by anyone, the latest patron of the Red Candle now stood on the opposite pavement, staring at its entrance and thinking wryly to himself that the place was about to gain one other claim to notoriety—for it was about to deprive one Harry Potter of his long-held virginity.  
  
Looking up at the place, Harry thought for the hundredth time that day that it was all too fitting that his dry run of romantic luck should end here, in the wasteland of vain fantasies and delusions. When Ernie had suggested it, he hadn’t said no, despite being appalled at the thought. He was still appalled, and more than a little disgusted with himself—which he reckoned was how you were supposed to feel when coming to a place like this. He wondered what would drive a person to come here—what, for that matter, was driving _him_ to come here. It wasn’t just for sex, that he knew; he could disguise himself and go into any club in London if he wanted to get off. But as himself—as Harry Potter, sex was impossible. He had learned that long ago. It was one of the many paradoxes about being the hero of a world who loved you so much they couldn’t bear to be near you. In any case, it wasn’t about ‘virginity.’ He hadn’t been fucked, had never fucked anyone else, and for that matter, was never likely to be in a relationship long enough to. But innocent? Harry was the least innocent person he knew.  
  
It was starting to rain, and Harry was beginning to get cold beneath his cloak. He shivered and dug his hands into his pockets. He had already made his decision; it was ridiculous to still be standing out here. He was renting a room for a price that screamed complete debauchery, and debauched he would get.  
  
A man in a long topcoat was entering the building through the side; Harry followed him as casually as possible up a short flight of stairs into a garishly lit, very wide hallway with tall red lanterns on either side. The floors were uncarpeted and spread with a profusion of Oriental rugs, and the whole scene made Harry wonder if the place acted as an opium den as well as a brothel.  
  
The hallway opened into a surprisingly pretty room with a single tall chandelier overlooking a circle of armchairs. He watched the man in front of him and saw that he went straight to the middle of the room, where a very attractive man, probably a year or two younger than Harry, was waiting with a suggestive smile playing about his features. Harry had assumed he would be greeted by a receptionist and handed a key and room number, but he saw no such setup. As he watched, the patron and the prostitute proceeded by themselves up a flight of stairs to the rear, chatting as if they were two friends getting together for a night of poker. Until that moment the feeling of the surreal, lingering at the corners of his senses, had not truly set in; as the two men disappeared behind the landing, however, Harry suddenly felt that he had entered an entirely different universe.  
  
“This is absurd,” he muttered.  
  
“Three thousand pounds for six hours? Yes, I’d say that’s the height of absurdity. Madness, even.”  
  
Harry’s mouth fell open.  
  
“Malfoy?!” he screeched.  
  
Draco Malfoy—for indeed it was he—drew himself up in the chair where he had been sitting facing away from Harry, and turned around, his eyes narrowing sharply. He peered at Harry.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said with a drawl, as though he were sitting on a satin-embroidered divan instead of in a cheap armchair with shoddy upholstery. “Have I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance?” His voice rose on a faintly sardonic note, which further underscored for Harry the lunacy of the fact that Malfoy, son of landed gentry, was meeting him for the first time in three years in the middle of a whorehouse.  
  
Harry blinked. “We—I—went to school with you,” he fumbled, trying not to let his discomfiture show. It was impossible not to be decomposed by the way Malfoy was looking through him, blankly, unrecognizing.  
  
A tiny part of his brain whispered that he wanted Malfoy to recognize him, which was the most ludicrous part yet.  
  
Malfoy arched his eyebrows, and stood up to face him. Harry saw that his clothes were threadbare, faded like the rug he was standing on. His face had always been pale, but now it was pale and pasty, thin lines worn into it as if someone had taken a scalpel and carved them there. Apparently, thought Harry before the first pangs of horror and pity set in, prostitution was no good for the complexion.  
  
“Did you?” Malfoy said mildly. “I don’t recollect—“  
  
“Hufflepuff,” Harry said, ignoring the way the room seemed to be closing in on the two of them, the universe shrinking to the size of a ten-year long rivalry. “I was a couple of grades below you—you wouldn’t have known me, likely.”  
  
“Ah,” said Malfoy, raking an appraising eye over Harry, who suddenly felt eleven years old and back in Madam Malkin’s. The hair on his arms started to prickle.  
  
“Wait,” he said. “Are you my…”  
  
“Your creature of the night? Why, yes I am,” said Malfoy unflappably. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
Harry clasped his hand and shook it in a daze.  
  
“This was a mistake,” he said faintly, telling himself this was clearly a sign from the gods that he’d made a colossal error in judgment in agreeing to come here to begin with, and that getting the hell out now was a far better option than sticking around to find out what a nice girl like Draco Malfoy was doing in a place like this.  
  
Malfoy chuckled, low in his throat. “Forget your wallet?” he asked. A hint of a smile flirted with the edges of his mouth, which proved even more disconcerting to Harry, who sort of had the impression that hookers were universally miserable and downtrodden.  
  
“No,” he said, shoving a hand in his pocket. “I requested someone different.” He fumbled for the card Ernie had given him, vaguely hoping that the manager or someone would come along and get him out of this mess.  
  
“A John Tracy?” Malfoy leaned back against the wall, putting his own hands in his pockets and stretching out his long long legs like a spider enjoying his web.  
  
Harry fished out the card, a business card in every way except for the dark red invitation on the back. “Yes.” He looked from the name on the card to Malfoy, who spread his hands.  
  
“No mistake,” said Malfoy. “Or did you think Draco Malfoy was going to include ‘professional sex expert’ on his C.V.?” He looked closer at what must have been Harry’s shell-shocked expression, and laughed darkly.  
  
Harry shoved the card back in his pocket and took a closer look at the figure in front of him.  
  
He was surprised most by what had not changed. The fine pale sheen of Malfoy’s hair was still unmarred; his hands (and Harry had been unaware of just how well he remembered Malfoy’s snobbish little hands until that moment) were still perfectly groomed, slender, and spotless under the nails—still the hands of a rich man’s son. His eyes were not as Harry remembered them, though, not quite: they seemed somehow bigger, and warmer, the worry lines beneath his lashes standing out firmly against his skin. He was thinner, even gaunt, and in the glaring light of the room it was as if someone had taken the tip of a quill and decorated him around the edges. All his lines were sharper now.  
  
Harry took his hands out of his pockets. He was suddenly aware of the stifling, dank air in the room, thick with the heat and sweat of summer and sex. From the upstairs where the couple had disappeared a moment earlier, a woman’s gin-soaked voice drifted from a radio, asking him if he were prepared to pay the price for a trip to paradise. Suddenly feeling very alone—alone with Malfoy—Harry shivered. “I can’t do this,” he said. “Not with you.”  
  
Malfoy replied, “Excellent. Who would you like me to be?”  
  
“Beg your pardon?” said Harry.  
  
Malfoy walked to the corner of the room. A mini-bar awkwardly disguised as a Victorian chifforobe stood there, and when Malfoy opened it Harry saw—to what, under any other circumstances, might have been his horror, but now was only a faint baffled amusement on top of all the other horrors he had been witnessing since his arrival—that it contained, not alcohol, but bottle after bottle of polyjuice.  
  
“Er,” said Harry.  
  
“We’ve all kinds—it tastes bloody awful, but I guarantee it’ll last as long as you can,” said Malfoy boredly. He leaned back against the wall next to the open cabinet, re-crossed his legs, and _winked_ at Harry, whose mouth suddenly went dry.  
  
Malfoy was a _whore_. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, his lifelong enemy and rival, was a two-bit cheap-change small-time cock-sucking light skirt. Who would even _wear_ a skirt if you paid him enough.  
  
Malfoy in a skirt.  
  
Malfoy in a skirt, on his knees, looking up at Harry with his lips stretched, ready to suck Harry’s—  
  
“This is ridiculous,” Harry yelped. “You just keep a stash of black market polyjuice on hand?”  
  
“Hello, _brothel_ ,” said Malfoy, his lips quirking in amusement. And staring at Malfoy’s lips was not helping matters.  
  
“So you can change into anybody you like?” Harry barked, on the defensive, and wondering how subtly he could retreat to the door.  
  
“Au contraire,” said Malfoy, eyes glittering (going from lips to eyes, not an improvement, _not_ an improvement). “Into anyone _you_ like.”  
  
Harry was going to _kill_ Ernie Macmillan if he ever survived the night.  
  
He opened his mouth to tell Malfoy he was leaving.  
  
“Who’s your most popular choice?” he heard himself ask instead.  
  
Malfoy was looking bored again, like a waiter reciting the daily specials. “Prince William, Keira Knightley, Fred and George Weasley if you rent a twofer, Orlando Bloom, Colin Firth, Harry Potter. Those are the top sellers, but we have pretty much anyone you can think of.”  
  
At the look on Harry’s face, his eyes narrowed. “You’re an innocent thing, aren’t you,” he said. “What, did you think people came here to play cribbage, mate?”  
  
Harry closed his mouth.  
  
“You—you have to turn into all those people?” he said.  
  
“Oh, trust me,” Malfoy said, his voice dropping to a low purr. “It’s the best part of my job. Being Keira Knightley is _divine_.” As he spoke the last word, he leveled his gaze right at Harry, and ran his hand down his own stomach, over his thigh. As if he couldn’t help touching himself. Couldn’t wait to _be_ touched. It was a move calculated to bring about the optimum results, and Harry was half-hard before Malfoy’s hands had stilled.  
  
“What about Harry Potter?” he asked, hearing his voice drop a notch or two. “What’s it like being him?”  
  
The light of faint amusement that had been present in Malfoy’s eyes suddenly went out. He looked at Harry in a way that told him clearly his time for being humored was up, and Harry was suddenly strongly aware that to Malfoy he was just another trick.  
  
And Malfoy was costing him five pounds a minute.  
  
“It’s just like all the others,” Malfoy said, and anyone who really _knew_ Malfoy knew he was lying.  
  
Harry took a step forward. “No, it’s not,” he said. “You always hated Potter at school.” He saw Malfoy’s jaw clench.  
  
“I give people what they want,” Malfoy said. “That’s all there is.” He looked at Harry coldly.  
  
Harry was almost close enough to touch him; he reached out, knowing Malfoy would bear the touch easily enough, but instead he found himself reaching for the cabinet, for the bottle of polyjuice with his own name on it. As he took it out and unscrewed the lid, he felt Malfoy tense beside him. How many times had Malfoy had to get someone off by pretending to be him? Harry wondered, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Thoughts of Malfoy whoring himself out in Harry’s skin, hating himself and Harry, and wanking off the whole time, were doing nothing for his erection.  
  
“This is what I want,” he said calmly, eyes flickering to Malfoy’s wary face. He lifted the bottle. Malfoy reached for it, but Harry stepped away.  
  
“Not for you,” he said. “For me.”  
  
“Oh,” said Malfoy, frowning. “You’re one of those.”  
  
When Harry looked at him, he continued impatiently, raking a hand through his hair, “Look, people who come here wanting to play dress-up never last long.” He moved close, so close Harry could see the marks on his skin, faint scars and scratches the dim lighting could not quite conceal. He tilted his head and looked down at Harry, his lips twisting. “You need a shrink, not a slut,” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, getting screwed and getting therapy are not the same thing.”  
  
Harry met his gaze evenly. “Or maybe my therapist recommended I get laid.”  
  
“So he sent you to me?” Malfoy whistled. “I’d hate to know what _he_ charges an hour.”  
  
“He makes an exception with me,” Harry parried. “Sometimes we go all night.”  
  
“And do you get what you pay for?”  
  
“I’m the most emotionally balanced guy in town.”  
  
Malfoy leaned closer. Harry did the same, and when he ran his hand over Malfoy’s forearm he immediately wished he hadn’t.  
  
Malfoy looked down at Harry’s fingertips touching his skin. “Well, Mr. Therapy Breakthrough,” he said with calm mockery, “If you really want to become Harry Potter, you won’t do it by painting a black line on your forehead and wearing glasses.”  
  
“I don’t want to be Harry Potter,” said Harry. “I just want to know what Draco Malfoy looks like when Harry Potter fucks him.”  
  
Any doubt Harry had that he was talking to the real and only Draco Malfoy vanished with the smirk on Malfoy’s face.  
  
After a thick, protracted silence, Malfoy’s shoulders relaxed. “Whatever you like,” he said. He closed Harry’s fingers around the bottle, deliberately letting their hands slide together.  
  
Harry didn’t pull away. “You haven’t asked me my name,” he said softly.  
  
“I don’t need to know,” Malfoy replied with a hint of dignity.  
  
Harry let his stranger’s eyes run for a calculated moment over every inch of Malfoy’s body.  
  
“You’ll want to, by the time we’re through,” he said.  
  
Malfoy arched his eyebrows and turned away looking unimpressed. “Right, then,” he said. “Shall we go up? Let’s.”  
  
Harry followed him upstairs, two flights, to a small bedroom with a small window and a full-length standing mirror in one corner. It was shabby but neat, and Harry under any other circumstances would have thought it almost cozy. Malfoy seated himself too casually on the bed, and gestured in a vague way toward the water closet, which Harry had to squeeze into, it was so narrow. “Use the mouthwash after you’ve drunk it all,” said Malfoy. “Stuff tastes like rotten carrots. It’s bloody awful to kiss.”  
  
Harry blinked at him for a few moments and shut the door.  
  
Once inside the water closet he exhaled and leaned heavily against the sink. The reflection in the mirror gazed dazedly back at him, a sandy-haired young man with dazzling blue eyes and a patch of Weasley-inspired freckles across the nose. Harry looked at that other boy. Patrick Ramey was the name he had given to him. A Hufflepuff, just out of Hogwarts—a fresh-faced, innocent, believable virgin. Patrick Ramey was the invisibility cloak Harry had worn into this place. But he had seen Malfoy and come unwrapped almost immediately.  
  
_Malfoy_. Of all people. What was Malfoy doing masquerading as a hooker? How had Harry never managed to hear about this before? It felt, even after all these years, like a fresh spate of betrayal—Malfoy had never been anything surprising, not to Harry. Malfoy was never a secret—Malfoy just didn’t drop out of sight and show up poncing about three years after the war in a _brothel_.  
  
Trying to steady his shaking fingers, Harry raked his hand through Patrick Ramey’s hair. He tried to remember everything he could about the Malfoys after the war, but the only thing he could recall with any certainty was the seizing of the Malfoy estate by the Ministry shortly before Lucius Malfoy’s death. He worried his upper lip and thought about the way Malfoy had vanished off the face of the earth shortly after leaving Hogwarts. Harry vaguely remembered a remark one of the Weasley twins had made a few months afterwards about how Malfoy had been seen going door to door among the shops at Diagon Alley, looking for a job. Or had it been much later than that? Harry wasn’t sure. He remembered the way he had laughed, though, at the thought of Draco Malfoy starving on the streets because nobody would hire him. Bloody hilarious it had been at the time.  
  
He winced, and tried to quell a rising surge of guilt. He was _not_ responsible for anything that had happened to Malfoy since the war. There was enough misery on his conscience already without adding to it, misery that had followed Harry from the moment of Voldemort’s fall. He had come to this desolate, desperate place to escape all that—to drown himself in pure pleasure, if only for a night. And then—Malfoy. Of all people.  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He didn’t have to do this. He could tell Malfoy he had changed his mind, and Patrick Ramey, blushing virgin, could get the fuck out of there and never have to worry or think about Draco Malfoy ever again.  
  
But somehow, now that Harry had seen Malfoy, he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t walk away from this moment any more than he could pretend to be someone else. If he were really going through with this—he thought of Malfoy’s warm skin under his arm, the way Malfoy’s eyes had burned into his, and shivered—he had to do it as himself.  
  
Ernie had given Harry the invitation to this place as a friend, and not as his therapist. But he had known all along that Draco was here and that he was sending Harry right to him. Maybe he had wanted Harry to see Draco—maybe it was part of his ongoing attempt to get Harry to remember that he wasn't the only one with a cross to bear since the war. Possibly he had only wanted them to talk. Or maybe he really had just wanted Harry to finally get laid.  
  
Hell, maybe Draco Malfoy was the best shag in London.  
  
Harry thought about Malfoy waiting for him, waiting for _Harry Potter_. The idea of it, the lewdness of it, went straight to his cock. Maybe he was here to face up to the part of himself that wanted Malfoy, that had always wanted Malfoy the way he secretly wanted all the dark and shameful urges that had made him a candidate for Slytherin all those years ago.  
  
Or maybe Ernie had just thought it would be a great joke.  
  
Harry sighed. Had he really taken the Polyjuice he would have turned by now. God forbid he keep _Malfoy_ waiting.  
  
He took a deep breath. “ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he muttered, and, bidding goodbye to Patrick Ramey, he poured the contents of the bottle down the drain.  
  
When he stepped out of the water closet, his heart was pounding, and his eyes were drawn instinctively to where Malfoy stood in the opposite corner of the room. Malfoy didn’t turn around; he was standing in front of the mirror, casually unbuttoning his shirt. He had three buttons undone, the long arc of his neckline and collarbone were exposed, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat.  
  
He looked up at Harry through the reflection of the mirror, and his hands suddenly froze on his lapel. He stared at Harry, the look on his face not quite the veil he probably hoped it was. Harry stared back, seeing his own reflection in the mirror, wondering what Malfoy thought of him. Did Malfoy think Harry was attractive? Did he want this?  
  
Did Harry want him to?  
  
He took a deep breath and stepped forward into the light, feeling Malfoy’s gaze on him, intent and serious. Holding his eyes in the reflection, Harry slowly slipped his shirt off over his shoulders.  
  
Malfoy’s eyes drifted over his shoulders—narrow and bony—and down over his chest. Harry watched his eyes in the mirror. The problem wasn’t that Harry was unattractive—years of training, first for Quidditch and then for fighting, had given him a body that was ready for anything. He had the build to show off, but somehow when Malfoy looked at him, Harry felt as if he were being inspected for some unseen quality, some Malfoy-standard of perfection he couldn’t possibly measure up to.  
  
He forced his voice calm: it went suddenly dark with arousal, and lower because it was his own again.  
  
“So tell me, Malfoy,” he said, coming up behind him. “Do you like his body?”  
  
Malfoy looked as if he were waging a war against himself. He lifted his head, and said sarcastically, “Yeah. I do.”  
  
“He’s got more than one scar now,” said Harry, noticing Malfoy’s gaze lingering on the one running along his abdomen—a wound gotten in ways he’d rather not think about. He forced his mind to stay on the present, on the look in Malfoy’s eyes.  
  
“Would you like to touch them?” he said softly.  
  
Malfoy didn’t answer; his pupils had dilated, and his cheeks were flushed. Harry stepped closer, close enough to run a hand over the flat of Malfoy’s smooth stomach.  
  
“Would you like to do more than just touch?” he murmured, pressing against him. Malfoy was a bit taller, and they fit together well, Harry’s erection aligned in the curve of Malfoy’s ass. It felt good. He trailed fingers up over Malfoy’s nipples, and felt the responsive hum of pleasure throughout his own body. He snaked his hand around Malfoy’s throat and tilted his chin up. Malfoy let his head fall back towards Harry’s shoulder.  
  
“Are you going to cuddle all night, or do you think we’ll get to hand-holding by morning?” he said dryly.  
  
Harry leaned up and kissed the side of Malfoy’s neck. “We’ll get there a lot faster if you shut up,” he said, sliding his hands over and up Malfoy’s chest, where his skin was smooth and cold and waiting to be explored.  
  
“Always the romantic, aren’t you, Potter,” said Malfoy—but he brought his hands up to finish undoing the buttons on his shirt, and he arched his neck into Harry’s kisses.  
  
When his shirt came off they were skin next to skin, and both of them were hard. Stifling the urge to spin Malfoy round and kiss him properly, Harry forced his hands to linger, to move slowly over him. “Tell me where to touch you,” he said.  
  
“Anywhere.”  
  
“Not good enough,” murmured Harry. “Tell me where you want his hands—his mouth.”  
  
Malfoy’s breath went ragged.  
  
“And say his name,” Harry added.  
  
In the mirror, he saw Malfoy visibly making an effort to recover his composure. His eyes went dark, and he stared levelly at Harry the whole time. “Touch my stomach,” he said, and drawled, “Harry,” as an afterthought, like a prayer uttered through blasphemous lips.  
  
Harry did, slowly, brushing the ends of his fingers over the thin flesh above Malfoy’s navel, where the skin was soft and smooth.  
  
“Touch—” Malfoy’s voice had gone shallow—“Touch my wrists… the underside of my arms.”  
  
Yearning to touch, Harry waited.  
  
“…Harry,” came the faint addendum.  
  
Harry turned over Draco’s long pale arms and ran his hands over the delicate blue veins on the undersides of his wrists, up to his elbows. Malfoy’s breathing sped up even further.  
  
“How do you like it?” Harry asked. “For Harry Potter to touch you this way?” He wrapped one arm around Malfoy and let his breath tickle the hairs on the back of Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy shivered.  
  
“It’s good,” he muttered. “But then, it’s what you’ve always wanted, right, Potter?” He said Harry’s name defensively, wielding it like a weapon.  
  
Harry shook his head and bent to kiss the crook of Malfoy’s elbow. “This is your fantasy, not mine,” he murmured, enjoying the feel of pure, silk-smooth baby skin next to his lips.  
  
Malfoy went rigid, and his skin tightened beneath Harry’s touch. “Is that what you really think of me?” he asked. “That I get off on humiliation?”  
  
Harry looked up in alarm. Malfoy’s eyes were flashing, and he wore an expression of scowling resentment.  
  
“Is that what you think, _Harry_?” he asked again.  
  
Harry straightened and looked at Malfoy in the mirror. Through his trousers, his erection was obvious, as was Harry’s own. He smirked.  
  
“I don’t really care how you get off, Malfoy.” He moved his hands to Malfoy’s waist and calmly unzipped Malfoy's trousers, which were made of a cheap fabric he probably hated wearing. Beneath them the top of Malfoy’s cock pressed forward through his briefs.  
  
“Just as long as you do?” muttered Malfoy, tilting his head back. Harry wrapped his hand around the fabric surrounding his hard-on, and Malfoy chuckled. “Then it is your fantasy.”  
  
“Shut up,” said Harry, staring into the mirror, concentrating on the look and feel of Malfoy’s cock head, on the dark patch of hair below his naval.  
  
“Do you play dress-up with all the boys, or is this just a special occasion?” Malfoy continued sardonically, apparently hardly aware of Harry’s hand on his cock.  
  
Harry gave it a quick jerk to make him pay attention, and Malfoy gasped. “Don’t you think you’re special?” he asked.  
  
He looked up to see Malfoy had closed his eyes. A sharp, undefined emotion darted through Harry’s stomach. He waited for Malfoy to answer, but he never did.  
  
“Harry,” he said softly after a moment. “Touch me.”  
  
“Where?” Harry felt his voice on the brink of shaking, and struggled not to think about why.  
  
“My hair,” said Malfoy, eyes still closed. Harry put his head up and ran it through Malfoy’s hair, which was tangled and rough and sexy. He raked his hand through it, pulling at the roots and giving Malfoy’s cock a firm stroke each time.  
  
“How long?” he asked, tugging gently at Malfoy’s hair. “How long since you had a really good shag?”  
  
Malfoy’s eyes flew open at this; he looked at Harry sharply through the mirror and snorted. “They’re all good. They all pay.”  
  
“What if I were the real Harry Potter?” asked Harry impulsively. He took his hand away from Draco long enough to start undoing his own trousers.  
  
“You’d never touch me,” said Malfoy, his voice suddenly cold.  
  
Harry pushed his trousers to his ankles and stepped out of them. He placed a hand on Malfoy’s side and began to massage the smooth flesh there, still working over Draco’s cock with his other. “But you love it. The thought of it, of him touching you,” he muttered. Malfoy shivered again. “The thought of him _fucking_ you. Do you fantasize about it?”  
  
Through the mirror Malfoy was staring at Harry warily, without answering.  
  
“It’s okay,” Harry said, his eyes gleaming in the mirror. “You can tell me—Potter will never know.”  
  
Malfoy expelled a long, steady breath. “I hate him.”  
  
“You want him. Bet you always have.” His hand moved faster.  
  
Malfoy laughed this time, a sharp, shallow laugh. “Everybody wants Potter. You’re no better. Pretending this is about me, about what I want. Why are you so eager to be somebody else?”  
  
“Why are you?” Harry countered. “You think your true calling is selling yourself to any man on the street? What happened to the real Draco Malfoy?”  
  
At once Malfoy jerked away from his grasp and turned to face him. He was furious, and his eyes were dark slits of anger.  
  
“You don’t know me,” he hissed. “You don’t know anything about me.”  
  
“That’s a pretty broad assumption, considering you’re about to let me fuck you.”  
  
Malfoy’s eyes went wide and his face deathly pale—livid. He stared at Harry for one terrible moment, and then _changed_. There was no other word for it, Harry only barely had time to think, before suddenly, standing in front of him, was the snarling, seething, reckless Draco Malfoy he knew, uncontrolled anger rolling off of him in waves.  
  
Harry backed up and clenched his fists without thinking about it.  
  
“You think you know me, Potter?” he said, spitting Harry’s name with so much loathing Harry winced. “You think you know me _so_ well—thought the moment you saw Draco Malfoy you’d play out your ultimate sick fantasy of good versus evil in between the sheets and I’d be grateful to _you_ for showing _me_ a good time. Is that it?”  
  
“Sounds good so far,” Harry countered, smirking. He suddenly felt-- _alive_ was the only word. Alive and in control and so _fucking_ hard. “Or is that erection you’ve got part of the act?”  
  
Malfoy hissed and lunged forward, grabbing Harry by the shoulders before Harry could react. When he did it was to wrap his arms around Malfoy’s waist and push their hips together as hard as he could.  
  
“You’re so easy, Malfoy,” he said. “You always were.”  
  
Malfoy spat, “ _Fuck_ you, Potter!”  
  
“And predictable, too,” said Harry.  
  
“How dare you come here,” seethed Malfoy, “and think you can humiliate me—”  
  
Harry reached up, jerked Malfoy’s head down, and kissed him.  
  
With an angry, guttural moan Malfoy’s mouth fell open for him, and Harry slid his tongue against, _inside_ him. He felt Malfoy’s arms tighten around his waist and slide up his back, fingers moving carefully over his muscles. He shifted to the balls of his feet, tilting Malfoy’s head down and deepening the kiss. Malfoy’s mouth was hot, his tongue eager. Harry wrapped his hand around Malfoy’s cock once again, and this time Malfoy moaned into his mouth and pressed his hips forward.  
  
They separated for a moment, breath coming in heavy gasps, and Harry muttered against Malfoy’s neck, “You love this. You’re going to like it so much you’ll never forgive yourself.” Malfoy raised his head and glared ten years of vivid hatred down his nose at Harry, and then they were kissing again, closer and harder than before. Malfoy ran his hand up Harry’s waist and proceeded up Harry’s forearms, raising them over his head and maneuvering him back against the wall. Harry allowed himself to be led, and thrust his hips up against Malfoy’s, using the wall for leverage. They were still kissing and he wondered remotely if Malfoy kissed all his clients this way, before Malfoy’s hand went to _his_ cock and Harry’s mental processes short-circuited.  
  
He was full of incoherent noises, and he could feel Malfoy’s smirk against his lips. He broke free of Malfoy’s grip on his arms and reached down to yank Malfoy’s underwear off over his protruding cock. Malfoy moved to help, their hands fumbling together; Malfoy’s forehead bumped his own, and they were still kissing, hot and heavy and fast.  
  
And then they were finally both naked, and Malfoy’s smirk was gone and he was moaning Harry’s name against Harry’s lips, his hand moving expertly over Harry’s cock.  
  
It took a moment in the absolute haze of pleasure clouding Harry’s brain for the significance to set in—and then it hit him like lightning piercing through everything else in the moment:  
  
This wasn’t an act and it wasn’t just lust. Malfoy really wanted him.  
  
_Malfoy had feelings for him._  
  
He pulled out of the kiss in a daze of confusion and shock, but Malfoy was too close and too incoherent to stop. He leaned against Harry, supported by the wall, and thrust weakly into Harry’s hand. As if watching from outside himself completely, Harry saw the way his hair shone with sweat as it fell forward over Harry’s neck, obscuring half-closed eyes and deep red lips parted with desire. That same unnamed feeling swept through Harry, and he tightened his grip around Draco’s waist and held him up as he came, hot fluid spurting into Harry’s hand, his shoulders heaving and his body swaying erratically as he struggled to keep his knees from giving out.  
  
Malfoy came for what seemed an impossibly long time, his orgasm wracking him and sending him lurching forward into Harry for several seconds. Harry had seen men come before—had given and received blowjobs. But this was different; this was Malfoy, and he suddenly felt cold with fear and uncertainty. Malfoy didn’t know he wasn’t the real Harry Potter. Malfoy had said that the real Harry Potter would never touch him. This was worse than rape: Harry was seeing all Malfoy’s vulnerability, all his emotion, on display in a way he would _never_ have been able to if Malfoy had known he was really Harry Potter.  
  
He clenched his fists and started to push Malfoy away out of sheer confusion; but suddenly Malfoy, without a word, dropped to his knees on the floor in front of Harry, and looked up at him.  
  
Harry had never seen anything like the look on Draco Malfoy’s face.  
  
He held Draco’s eyes for a long moment, neither of them saying a word, before Draco slowly wrapped his hand around Harry’s erection and leaned forward.  
  
Harry watched him in fascination and horror. When the velvet warmth of Draco’s mouth closed around him he fought to keep from closing his eyes. It seemed suddenly vital that he keep them on Draco, that he _see_ him. He felt it without knowing what it meant exactly, and let his hands trail gently over the back of Draco’s head, threading through his hair, touching the nape of his neck.  
  
“Feels good,” he murmured, aware that something had changed, that maybe everything had. Malfoy’s hands crept up the back of his calves, stroking the sensitive skin there, making him come alive with sensation in every part of his body. He moaned, the sound the only thing in the suddenly still room other than the quiet clicks of Draco’s throat against his cock. Harry thrust slowly, and it was Draco’s turn to moan; his cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with arousal, and he kept them trained on Harry while he took him deeper inside his mouth.  
  
Harry heard himself murmuring things, felt the world about to go white around him. He was going to come inside Draco Malfoy’s mouth—the thought—the look on Draco’s face—  
  
It was all he needed, and he let Draco drink the taste of him as he came to orgasm.  
  
“Fuck,” he gasped, hand grasping the roots of Draco’s hair, in part to steady himself. “Fuck.”  
  
Draco swallowed and sat back on his haunches. His eyes were searching Harry out although the rest of his face was still. He looked as if all the snarky rejoinders he would like to make were dying in his throat. “Stand up,” Harry said hoarsely, pulling him to his feet. Draco rose, and Harry kissed him with the taste of himself still on Draco’s lips. He heard Draco’s breathing hitch, and slid a hand down over his ass. Where so many others have been before, he thought, and felt a jolt of arousal and discomfort and too many other things to understand.  
  
“Get on the bed,” he murmured when their lips parted. “I want to fuck you.”  
  
Draco kissed him again, slow and deep, and Harry let him, feeling the shape of the kiss change and shift, riding it out like a wave. He tightened his arms around Draco, and still they kissed, until at last it was done and Draco said simply “Yes, Harry,” and moved to lie down on the bed, eyes downcast as if he were the virginal one, not Harry.  
  
Harry moved to sit beside him. Malfoy lay on his back, one arm behind his head as if he were sitting for a nude portrait. He was fucking gorgeous, Harry realised suddenly. He hadn’t thought about it before—hadn’t needed to think about the way Malfoy looked to get turned on by the idea of this.  
  
He slid his hand over Draco’s stomach, taut and flushed under his fingers. “I want you to know who I am,” he said.  
  
Draco’s eyes moved to his. “No,” he said shortly.  
  
“This can’t happen again if I don’t,” said Harry. His hand froze over Draco’s body as it went rigid, and the air suddenly seemed to stiffen around them.  
  
Draco held his eyes for a long moment, and Harry’s heart was suddenly beating faster and louder than before. When Draco reached for him he came willingly, pressing their mouths together and moving his hand behind him to pull him closer.  
  
“What are we doing?” murmured Draco, tangling a hand in his hair.  
  
“Say my name,” Harry whispered.  
  
“Harry.” Draco said his name and closed his eyes, and Harry placed his mouth on the curve of Draco’s neck. “Say it again.”  
  
“Harry.”  
  
“Do you want me?”  
  
“Yes,” breathed Draco.  
  
“Then show me.” Harry kissed a trail down the arch of Draco’s neck to his collarbone, and Draco moved with him, pressing up into Harry’s lips, into his touch, as if his whole body were lighter than air, rising wherever Harry beckoned. Harry slid his hand down to Draco’s thighs, stroking the insides of them, still sticky with semen and sweat. Draco parted his legs.  
  
“I want you,” he said, voice coated with a new note of arousal. He was completely unrestrained, his hand still tucked behind his head, eyes fastened to Harry, lips parted. I could touch him any way I wanted, Harry thought. He would let me.  
  
He thought of all the ways he wanted to touch and felt himself hardening again.  
  
“How do you want me?” he asked, lips against the base of Draco’s throat. He lingered there long enough to feel the rumble of Draco’s moan begin beneath his lips, and moved to capture Draco’s mouth in a kiss before it escaped. Draco moaned again at this, and Harry shifted between his legs so their erections were pressing together, one hand trapped between his own body and Draco’s warm hips, the other behind Draco’s head, pulling him closer.  
  
“Want you,” murmured Draco, “close—like this.” He slid his legs up and wrapped them around Harry’s waist. Harry shivered and kissed him again, and Draco ran his foot slowly over the back of Harry’s thigh. Harry wriggled closer, and deepened the kiss.  
  
“I want to make you come,” he said against Draco’s lips, “over and over again.”  
  
Draco responded by arching up so that Harry felt the length of his cock pressing against his own. He raked a hand over Harry’s back. Harry kissed him harder.  
  
“Want you,” he muttered, squeezing Draco’s arse and feeling Draco’s whole body tauten in response.  
  
“Want you too.” Draco’s kisses were hungry, insistent. “Want you to watch me. When I—”  
  
“Yes,” breathed Harry, rocking slowly against him, rubbing their erections together. “Want you to scream my name when you come.” He pulled Draco’s hips up, and Draco moaned.  
  
“Want you to—” Draco’s eyes opened and he stilled, looking at Harry intently. “Kiss me,” he said.  
  
Harry kissed him, long and deep. When he broke away, his erection was throbbing painfully—and Draco’s eyes were hard.  
  
“You don’t taste of mouthwash,” he said.  
  
“What?” said Harry.  
  
Draco sat up slowly, pushing Harry back, his eyes going wider and wider by the second. By the time Harry realised what had happened they were the size of saucer plates and his face had drained of all color.  
  
“Get out, Potter,” he said in a low, low voice.  
  
Harry felt the world shrink again, to the size of the bed and the short distance between the two of them.  
  
“No,” he said, watching Draco’s face carefully.  
  
“Get out of here or I’ll kill you,” said Draco again, still in that same quiet voice.  
  
“You won’t,” said Harry. “You can’t.”  
  
Draco’s jaw clenched.  
  
“Isn’t that right?” Harry continued. “Isn’t that why you didn’t become a Death Eater? Because you couldn’t cast the Killing Curse?”  
  
Draco gave a snarl of rage and lunged for him, but Harry, quicker and stronger, caught him by the arms.  
  
“I’ll kill you!” Draco shrieked. “You cock-sucking _bastard_ , get the fuck out of here!” He writhed and kicked but Harry held fast.  
  
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell you’re doing here,” said Harry firmly, struggling to keep Malfoy from wrenching away and going for a stranglehold.  
  
“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Malfoy yelled, so loudly Harry was afraid that the invisible management might hear them and come to his aid. “Goddammit, I _hate_ you, you—you knew it was me all along, that I was here. You came just so you could humiliate me—” he left off with an incoherent scream.  
  
“I didn’t!” snapped Harry angrily. “I didn’t do this on purpose!”  
  
“You didn’t pretend to be somebody else? What was that crap about Hufflepuff, or was that just the delusion of a two-bit whore?”  
  
“Oh, shut _up_ , Malfoy,” replied Harry, shoving him backwards. This time Malfoy’s lunge was more successful; but when he caught Harry round the throat Harry used his forward momentum to pull Draco back against him and roll him against the bed, trapping Draco beneath the force of his weight. Draco struggled, but Harry’s Auror-trained instincts were alive, and all Draco could do was writhe ineffectually—which served only to make Harry aware that he was still extremely hard.  
  
He grabbed Draco’s arms and pinned them over his head, and pressed his mouth to Malfoy’s before he could think about what he was doing. Draco let out a muffled shriek and fought, but Harry persisted, fitting himself against Draco and grinding down against his still-prominent hard-on.  
  
Draco broke free and bit Harry hard on the shoulder. Harry yelped but didn’t let go, and when Draco looked up at him, he kissed him again.  
  
This time Draco attempted to knee him in the groin, which was next to impossible given his position, and only served as a lot of additional wriggling. Harry moaned in spite of himself, and worked his lips over Draco’s ear.  
  
“Fuck you,” Draco hissed. “Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_ , _ohhh_ —” Harry’s tongue was working beneath his ear lobe and he arched up. “God, I hate you,” he said, voice shaking.  
  
Harry stilled above him, and looked at him. “You don’t, though,” he said. “Not really, do you.” It wasn’t a question.  
  
Draco glared at him. “Just shut up, Potter, and fuck me if you’re going to fuck me.”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows and ground his hips against Draco’s. “Why, because you’re the whore and I’m the client?” Draco hissed, in rage or pleasure or both. Harry kept moving against him. “What happened to ‘I want you, Harry’?”  
  
“I want your fucking head on a platter, you Gryffindor arsewipe half-blood—”  
  
Harry kissed him again, and Draco’s tongue met his despite every word dying in his throat. He ran a hand over Draco’s chest and the moan he got in response told him he was no longer in danger of being strangled or otherwise injured. Draco arched against him and the kiss spun out, hot and angry and good.  
  
“I told you,” Harry muttered when they finally broke apart, “you’re going to love it.”  
  
Draco was panting. “You’re the biggest arse in all of London, Potter.”  
  
“Lube,” said Harry breathlessly, trying to stay focused. “Where is it?”  
  
Malfoy tried his best to scowl, but the effect was significantly diminished by the fact that his hair was mussed, his lips were swollen and parted, and his eyes were slightly glazed. “On the dresser,” he muttered.  
  
Harry waved his hand and the lube flew into it. Draco’s eyes went wide, and Harry felt him harden even more beneath him.  
  
Harry smirked. “Yeah, I can do wandless magic, Malfoy,” he said. “Want me to show you?” He cocked his head and studied Draco, lying completely helpless beneath him and studying him warily, perfectly aware that he was open and exposed and that just the idea of it was turning Harry on enormously. After a moment’s consideration Harry yanked the bedsheet from beneath him. In his hands it suddenly became a Slytherin tie. Draco sat up in surprise, but Harry pushed him down firmly, and a moment later Draco’s hands were over his head, tied to the bed frame.  
  
“There,” Harry said appraisingly. “Now my neck is safe.” He leaned down, close to Draco’s ear, speaking so the warmth of his breath rustled Draco’s hair. “Yours isn’t, though.”  
  
Draco turned his head and started to curse, but Harry captured his mouth firmly and Draco responded, arching up and grinding against him. Harry shifted and pulled Draco’s legs up, bending his knees and draping them over his own shoulders. His cock brushed Draco’s arse and sent shivers of pleasure running through him.  
  
“You want this?” he asked, dipping his fingers into the bottle of lubricant.  
  
“Go to hell,” said Malfoy, squirming.  
  
“Not the right answer, Malfoy,” said Harry.  
  
“Fuck you!”  
  
“No,” said Harry calmly. “Your line is ‘fuck me.’” He slid his index finger along the crevice of Draco’s arse and slipped it inside. Draco gasped and stilled, and Harry worked it in and out slowly, adjusting to the feel of it, the heat and the way Draco’s muscles felt contracting and expanding around him.  
  
“Well?” he said.  
  
Draco grunted by way of reply. Harry chuckled and began rotating his finger, which by the look of it was a good move. He wondered what it would be like trying to repeat the motion with his cock later, and thought wryly that if he messed anything up at all, Malfoy would be sure to let him know—and probably never let him hear the end of it.  
  
“Do you like it when you get to dress up like me?” he asked, pushing his finger in deep and angling it up against the outer wall of Draco’s passage, so that it brushed a part of Draco that made him arch and gasp and wriggle like a fish. “Does it make you hot being inside my body, getting to act like me?”  
  
“None of your goddamn bus— _ah_ ,” he panted, as Harry repeated this a few more times.  
  
“Tell me what it’s like,” Harry persisted. “Tell me or I stop.”  
  
“Like I give a bloody buggering fuck _what_ you do,” hissed Draco,  
  
“You’re a terrible liar, Malfoy,” Harry crooned. He worked a second finger inside of Draco and watched his cheeks flush and his breathing speed up. Draco gave him a dark, intent look for a moment, and abruptly turned his head away.  
  
“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly. “We’re doing this. Talk to me.”  
  
Draco didn’t respond at first, nor did he look at Harry. Harry’s fingers stilled, and he waited for a reaction.  
  
“Malfoy?”  
  
“He wanted me to bring you to him,” said Draco softly.  
  
Harry stiffened. “What?”  
  
“From Hogwarts,” Draco said. “He wanted me to deliver you to him. I couldn’t. When the initiation ritual came I pretended to be unable to cast the killing curse. They thought I was loyal. Nothing happened to me.” He was still looking away, avoiding Harry’s stunned gaze. “But I didn’t have to help him catch you.”  
  
Harry felt a cold chill settle over him. He stared down in shock at Draco, who stared determinedly down at the disheveled bedcovers, hair falling over his face so his eyes were masked. Harry sat back, completely at a loss for words.  
  
Since the war he had had major and minor revelations about the parts that people around him had played to keep him safe. Everyone had been a hero; everyone had fought the battles which he had been handed all the credit for winning; and every time he learned of someone else’s story the weight of burden on him and the guilt he bore from their sacrifices seemed to increase tenfold. It was this, the guilt and the weight of their faith in him, that had sent him into therapy on Hermione’s insistence (it had helped that Ernie was her husband). From the first day, Ernie had drilled into him, over and over again, that he couldn’t be responsible for anyone else’s choice—that no matter how easy it was to feel as if his friends were somehow acting on his behalf, they had really only been acting for their own welfare, not his.  
  
And yet now, here was Draco Malfoy, who hated him, telling him that he had been right all along: it had all been for him. And for what? Another blow to Voldemort so Harry could live and Draco could end up turning tricks in a whorehouse? Harry thought about the way he had tried to tell himself earlier that he wasn’t responsible, had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy being in this place. What an idiot he was. He had gotten it backwards: he wasn’t responsible for Draco being here—Draco was responsible for _Harry_ being here. He was part of the reason Harry was alive and walking around London today. They all were.  
  
No matter what Ernie and his bullshit therapy sessions were telling him, Harry was under a lifelong debt to countless hundreds, even thousands of Wizards and Muggles who had fought against Voldemort. He owed them what he could never possibly repay.  
  
And now, he understood, he also owed that debt to Draco.  
  
Slowly, he reached up, and undid the tie that bound Draco’s wrists.  
  
“I…” he swallowed. “I can go.”  
  
He moved to the edge of the bed and was reaching for his clothes when he felt Draco’s hand on his arm. He looked at Draco and saw that his eyes were clear.  
  
“You don’t have the first clue,” Draco said, “how much I want you.”  
  
Harry’s stomach turned over.  
  
“Maybe I do,” he said. “Maybe a little.” He looked down at his hands. “At least,” he said, “if it’s as much as I want you tonight.”  
  
Draco crooked his head and didn’t quite raise his eyes to Harry’s. “Why in god’s name would you want to stay?”  
  
Harry blinked at him  
  
“I…”  
  
“If it’s out of pity—”  
  
“It’s not,” said Harry quickly. “I do know that.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t pity you. Even if I want to. I owe you…” he trailed off.  
  
Draco shook his head. “What I would have been—” he began shakily, and then stopped, raking a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”  
  
“Tell me,” Harry urged. “Please.”  
  
Draco drew in a deep breath, and then continued, his words harsh and deliberate, as if he were fighting to speak them. “I’m in a brothel because no one after the war trusted me enough to hire me. I tried to—to disguise myself as a Muggle, but it was like trying to live in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language and don’t know the culture. I was a disaster. When I came back I had nothing left.”  
  
Harry wanted to touch him, but knew instinctively it wasn’t the right time. He worried his hands in his lap, and waited for more.  
  
“I could have taken on a disguise,” Draco said. “Become somebody else. Had a different life. I’ve thought about it enough times.”  
  
“Why didn’t you?” Harry asked.  
  
Draco looked at him, then, eyes questioning and wary and full of more emotion than they had ever turned towards Harry in ten years. “I had lost everything but myself,” he said. “I didn’t want to turn my back on that. I wanted to be Draco Malfoy. I was the boy who sacrificed his future for Harry Potter.” A raw, bitter note entered his voice, as Harry drew in his breath. “I wanted to matter that much to you. Just once. Even if you never knew it.”  
  
Harry stared at him, completely astounded.  
  
“I would have become something terrible,” Draco continued, his voice on the verge of trembling, but steady anyway. “I would have become something I would have hated. But this way? This way, every time I do this, every time I’m humiliated, every time I whore myself out, sell myself, do something unspeakably degrading—I’m doing it because I _chose_ it over a life under Voldemort. I’m doing it because of my sacrifice for you.” He looked down and tore a loose thread from the bedspread distractedly. “It keeps me proud, in the most fucked-up way imaginable.”  
  
Harry was still staring. Draco gave a soft chuckle, and shifted away from him. “Now you know, Potter. You can take one thing away from this: you don’t owe me anything.”  
  
He leaned forward and reached slowly for his clothes, stilling when Harry touched him, his hand resting at the base of Draco’s back.  
  
“I thought the fee was three thousand pounds,” said Harry.  
  
“I’m not accepting payment,” said Draco sharply, not looking at Harry. “Don’t make a mockery of what’s happened here tonight.”  
  
Harry, hand still resting on Draco’s back, smiled.  
  
“So far, nothing much has actually _happened_ , Malfoy,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Draco turned to face him. Apparently it was his turn to stare.  
  
Harry straightened and drew in a breath. “Draco,” he said. “I want this.”  
  
Draco continued to search his face warily.  
  
“I want…” Harry faltered. “Oh, hell.”—and before Draco could protest he took him in his arms and kissed him deeply.  
  
This kiss was much softer, slower, but it left them both breathless. When Harry finally released him, Draco was looking at him as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life, and now that it was here he could only stare at it in wonder.  
  
“Are you still—” said Harry uncertainly.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said hastily. “I’m ready.”  
  
Harry leaned him down against the bed’s only pillow, and positioned himself carefully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For not telling you who I was at the start.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “Just get inside me,” he said. His voice was coarse and low. “Please.”  
  
Harry hesitated. “I’ve never done this before,” he said.  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. “Never shagged your worst enemy in the middle of a brothel? That makes two of us.”  
  
Harry flushed. “Oh,” said Draco, an instant before his eyebrows flew up.  
  
“You’re a _virgin?_ ”  
  
Harry hadn’t known it was possible to shriek while breathless.  
  
“You’re a _virgin_ , Potter?” Draco pushed him off and sat up, his eyes wide and wild.  
  
“Not entirely,” said Harry, flushing even more. “Just. Well. Yes. Technically.”  
  
“It’s your first time having sex and you’re doing it with a _hooker_?”  
  
“No,” said Harry, with a sudden certainty. “I’m doing it with _you_.”  
  
“You came here,” Draco said distractedly, “to lose your virginity?”  
  
“Yes, alright, already,” said Harry, feeling his cheeks burn.  
  
“Then it wasn’t because of me,” said Draco, his expression clearing in relief. “You didn’t—you didn’t know I was here.”  
  
“I already told you I didn’t,” said Harry, trying to be patient but finding it extremely difficult considering they had already waylaid the evening’s main order of business long enough, and his arousal was starting to become unbearable.  
  
“But you asked for my alias,” Draco said. “I wondered if maybe it was all an act.” He looked down at his hands, sheepish and relieved at once, a tousled lock of hair falling into his face. He looked, Harry thought, adorable. And delectable.  
  
Harry leaned in to capture his lips in a kiss, pushing him back down on the bed as he did. Draco went willingly, with a moan that wasn’t quite one of protest. “A friend thought it would be a good idea to set this meeting up,” Harry answered him when he finally allowed Draco’s lips to leave his.  
  
“Do you trust your friend, Potter?” asked Draco faintly, looking as desperate as Harry felt.  
  
“Yeah,” said Harry. “I do.” He nibbled the skin at the base of Draco’s throat, feeling the Draco’s racing pulse beneath his lips.  
  
Draco gasped. “If you don’t fuck me right now, Potter…”  
  
“I told you,” said Harry, placing a kiss on Draco’s mouth. “Call me Harry.”  
  
“Harry,” murmured Draco, his eyes fastened to Harry’s face.  
  
They kissed for a long moment, Harry leaning his weight against Draco’s bare skin, enjoying the feel of him naked beneath him, before he finally pulled away and focused on the issue at hand. Draco was taut and tense and obviously ready; Harry drew Draco’s legs up and hesitated.  
  
“Take it at the tip,” Draco informed him, in a voice that attempted to be didactic despite an obvious amount of lust and impatience. “So you can guide it in.”  
  
Harry nodded, took a deep breath, and grasped his erect cock near the head, lining it up with Draco’s entrance. He attempted to push forward gently, but balked at the natural resistance of an opening so small against something so much larger.  
  
“Don’t be afraid,” said Draco. “I’m very used to this. Just push in slowly—you won’t hurt me.”  
  
He exhaled as he spoke, and instinctively Harry pushed against him, this time feeling the muscles beneath him relax and allow him to move inside. The tight ring engulfing the head all at once made him gasp, and he had to stop to adjust to the sudden onslaught of warmth encircling him.  
  
“God,” he said shakily. “This feels— _god._ ”  
  
“Now you know what they pay for,” smirked Draco.  
  
“Does it hurt?” Harry panted.  
  
Draco shifted and angled himself so that he drew Harry’s penis into himself a bit further. “You feel wonderful, Harry Potter.”  
  
Harry shivered at the tone of his voice and felt himself turning red. He moved a bit more, desperate to stay in control, not to ruin it by premature ejaculation, or premature anything for that matter. Slowly, slowly, he pressed in further; until suddenly, with a slight jolt of movement, he was past the sphincter and half of his shaft slid easily inside of Draco, into the most amazing thing Harry had _ever_ felt.  
  
“Wow,” he said shakily. “Wow.”  
  
Draco arched his neck and lay back against the pillow, eyes on Harry, and a smirk—so familiar, but so different in this strange and wonderful new context—playing about his mouth. “Angle down a bit,” he said. “Where your fingers were moving before.”  
  
Harry did as he was asked and was rewarded by Draco’s long, drawn out sound of pleasure. Taking this as his cue, he began to thrust gently at that same angle, getting a bit deeper every time, until he was shuddering from the effort of control, and all his nerve endings were alight.  
  
“You don’t have—” Draco panted, his breath coming in gasps, “—don’t have to go so slow.”  
  
“Oh god,” muttered Harry. “Don’t _tell_ me that.”  
  
“Just fuck me, Potter,” said Draco roughly. “Over and over again, that was the promise—remember?”  
  
Harry tried to reply but it came out as a moan, and so instead he turned and bent his head to nibble one of Draco’s thighs, before pulling out long enough to yank the pillow out from under Draco’s head and place it squarely beneath his hips, raising him up further.  
  
“Impressive,” Draco offered, wrapping his legs around Harry’s back.  
  
“No,” said Harry. “Not like that.” He grasped Draco’s legs and pushed them up until he was bent double, his arse totally exposed.  
  
“Oh, _fuck_ ,” said Draco, shutting his eyes and shivering.  
  
This time when Harry entered Draco there was no hesitation, only a sliding pop as he passed the ring of muscle and sheathed himself deep, deep inside. I can _do_ this, he thought in a giddy rush of excitement.  
  
“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll need workers comp,” he said in a low voice.  
  
Draco’s eyes opened wide, full of amusement and warmth.  
  
“If you think you know how, Potter,” he said, and Harry responded by moving his hips in a firm slow circle, trying not to groan in pleasure, as Draco’s breath hitched and his head fell back against the mattress.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and focused on the spot of sweat forming on Draco’s forehead as he began to move. The hot grip of muscle and nerve endings around his cock tightened and rippled as Draco adjusted to his angles, until suddenly he let out a long raw moan that sent vibrations throughout Harry’s body. “Oh, that’s it,” Draco gasped, breathing heavily through his mouth. Harry sped up and tried to steady his own breathing. Draco was incredibly responsive beneath him, far more vocal than he had been at any point during the night, and every moan and gasp and utterance of pleasure was deadly to Harry’s wavering self-control. He drove into Draco again and again, feeling the shudders all throughout his body whenever he struck Draco’s prostate. Draco moaned and shifted and pushed back against him in an erratic, perfect rhythm, his legs jolting, the undersides of his knees red and wet from sweat and excitement. Harry worked the slapping of his thighs against Draco’s ass in regular rhythm: faster—faster—and then he was there, shuddering in release, feeling his come spread around him in the heat of Draco’s body.  
  
Draco grinned hazily up at him and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it roughly in time to Harry’s thrusts as Harry rode out his orgasm. Harry tried to keep his eyes on him, but Draco’s muscles were flexing and contracting around him, and he couldn’t—it was too much.  
  
“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Harry moaned, leaning against Draco’s legs and placing his hand over Draco’s cock. Their fingers brushed and fumbled; Draco let out a grunt and muttered something incomprehensible, and then his entire body went taut and the air shot out of his lungs in a long loud rush of ‘oh god fuck yes FUCK me god Harry yes FUCK’—and with a long arch he came in long thick jets spurting over Harry’s hand and onto his abdomen.  
  
His orgasm stretched on and on. Harry slowed his movements, watching him in fascination, but Draco shook his head so energetically Harry realised stopping now would be a bad thing. He continued to thrust, still overcome from his own climax, until at last Draco’s legs gave out and he wrapped them around Harry’s waist, drawing him close against him.  
  
Harry let himself be propelled into a hot, sloppy kiss, then collapsed on Draco’s stomach, sticky with sweat and come, to feel the last shudders of Draco’s body beneath him. They lay together for a moment, panting and gasping, before their eyes met and held. Slowly, a little uncertainly, Draco ran his hand through Harry’s hair, and Harry expelled his breath and nestled his head on Draco’s stomach, closing his eyes.  
  
“So how was it?” Draco asked softly. “Your first time.”  
  
Harry, by way of answer, found Draco’s hand and laced his fingers through it, still with his eyes closed. Draco’s other hand still traced its way through his hair, and for a moment all Harry did was breathe in the scent, the feeling of their bodies against each other, like this. It was wonderful, and calming, and such a surprise.  
  
“I want to do it again,” he said at last. “With you.”  
  
Draco’s hand in his hair stilled for a moment, then continued its rhythmic stroking. “It’s just the experience. Everybody feels like this afterwards.”  
  
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been with anyone,” Harry said simply. “This is different.”  
  
“It wasn’t…” Draco shifted beneath him a bit and Harry tucked their hands under Harry’s chest, fingers wound tight around Draco’s own. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”  
  
“I’m glad I did,” said Harry. “I wouldn’t have had this if I hadn’t.”  
  
“What you _had_ , Potter, was a—”  
  
“Harry.”  
  
“— _Harry_ , was a one-night stand with a hooker.”  
  
“Harry bristled and raised his chin. “It doesn’t have to be a one-night stand,” he said calmly. “It could be a two-week stand. Or a two-month stand. Or even a—“  
  
“Okay, Potter,” said Draco dryly. “I get the idea.”  
  
Harry ran his hand over Draco’s rib cage, still hot and sticky. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” he said. “How you could have been in love with me all that time—” Draco stiffened beneath him, but Harry deliberately paid no attention, continuing tracing his fingers over Draco’s skin—“and I never had any idea.”  
  
Draco had tensed completely, and carefully Harry found his eyes. Draco’s expression was guarded, but after a moment of doing battle with Harry’s steady gaze, he unclenched and sighed, an obvious surrender.  
  
“We all make the mistake of seeing what we want to see,” was all he offered.  
  
It was enough for Harry.  
  
“So let me see you again,” he said.  
  
“No,” said Draco in what seemed to Harry to be pure stubbornness. “This wasn’t meant to happen. Repeating it will just fuck everything up.”  
  
“Malfoy, you’re a _hooker_ ,” Harry stated blankly. “How much more fucked up do you expect things to get?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Draco responded irritably. “Had you asked me that three hours ago I might have said, ‘Well, at least Harry Potter hasn’t walked in here sporting a card with my name on it.’”  
  
“Malfoy,” said Harry in exasperation. “ _Draco_. You’re in love with me.”  
  
Draco clenched his lips.  
  
“And I—”  
  
“—want to save me,” Draco finished for him, looking suddenly miserable. It was an image that brought back memories of childhood for Harry, who wondered for the first time in his life how much of those years _had_ been miserable for Draco.  
  
“I don’t want to save you,” he said firmly. “I want to _date_ you, and I can’t do it if you’re in a whorehouse, because frankly I wouldn’t be caught dead coming back here. This place is a pit. You don’t even have towels in the washroom.”  
  
“You’re a wizard,” Draco responded grumpily. “Do wizardly things and conjure them like everyone else.” But he didn’t look quite _as_ miserable, Harry noted happily, as he had the moment before.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry declared. “Can’t bring myself to do it. And if you don’t let me see you again, outside of here, I’ll—”  
  
Draco bristled. “You’ll _what_?”—and it was charming how ineffective a sneer could look on such a sex-sated expression.  
  
“I’ll _pay_ you,” Harry said with a wicked grin. Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll pay you _all_ three thousand. What’ll it be, Malfoy? Your pride or a proper date with me?”  
  
Draco blinked. Harry waited.  
  
“You won’t try to save me?” he said warily.  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
“And you won’t try to use your ministry influence to pull strings and get me a job somewhere?”  
  
“Course not,” Harry lied.  
  
Draco was looking brighter. “What will you say when the Daily Prophet snaps a picture of us and you wake up to find your face all over the papers and slanderous stories of my death eater activities and immoral life as a known prostitute staring back at you?”  
  
“I’ll roll over and shag you senseless and I won’t say anything.”  
  
“You won’t make me sleep on the wet spot?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Or do anything rough without a safe word?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Harry said, horrified.  
  
“Or make me always have to clean up the mess?” Draco continued excitedly.  
  
“No,” Harry responded. “And no to all the rest.”  
  
“Can I crash at your place?” Draco tilted his head.  
  
“N—yes,” Harry said exasperatedly.  
  
“Good,” said Draco, smirking. “There’s just one more thing.”  
  
“What’s that?” said Harry.  
  
“This,” said Draco, and promptly pushed Harry off the bed.  
  
“OW!” Harry said loudly and indignantly from his position on the floor, where he had rolled and landed squarely on his backside. “What the—stop laughing! What was that for!”  
  
“Ten years of mocking me, beating me at Quidditch, ignoring me, sucking up to Dumbledore, making me be all heroic and self-sacrificing, and depriving me of the ability to hate you for any of it,” Draco said.  
  
He said it all in one breath, as if he had rehearsed.  
  
Harry stared up at him, unsure whether to be annoyed or embarrassed or apologetic or outraged, until Draco held out his hand.  
  
“Come kiss me,” he said, smirking. “I’ve still got four more hours in which to despoil you.”  
  
“Free of charge?”  
  
“Free of charge.”  
  
And Harry, joining Draco on the bed, proceeded to get properly debauched.  
  
  


............

  
  
“Hello, Ernie? It’s Harry.”  
  
“’Lo, what’s up?”  
  
“I was just calling to tell you I don’t think I’m going to be coming to therapy for a while.”  
  
“Really?” Surprise laced Ernie’s voice. “This is a big step for you. Are you sure it’s the right one?”  
  
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. “For now, anyway.”  
  
“Do you want to tell me what brought this about?”  
  
“I just realised some things, is all.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“That you’re wrong. When you say I don’t owe anyone anything for what happened in the war.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I do owe them. I have to live with it.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“But I have to _live_ with it.”  
  
“And what does that mean for you?”  
  
“I don’t know yet. But I guess I’ll see.”  
  
“You mean ‘we’ll see,’ don’t you?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You and Malfoy.”  
  
Harry grimaced. “Goodbye, Ernie.”  
  
“Goodbye, Harry. Oh, and Harry—are you safe?”  
  
Harry turned and looked over at the sleeping form of Draco behind him. He was wrapped in _all_ of the bedsheets, had sprawled across the entire bed, and was currently mumbling very rude things about morning people into Harry’s pillow, his hair a disheveled mess completely concealing his face.  
  
“Harry? Remember what we’ve talked about, okay? Are you safe?”  
  
Harry studied Draco.  
  
“Probably not,” he said, and grinned.


End file.
